Was that disappointment that sagged her shoulders? Why? She even let out a little breath that rang of frustration as she tucked back a tendril of hair that had slipped free of her braid. “You seem to have me at a disadvantage, sir. You know my name, but I don’t recall ever learning yours.”
No, their hour-long walk through the gardens at Telford Hall hadn’t been cluttered with such unnecessary things. For all he’d known at the time, she could have been a governess, a maid enjoying her half day, or even a daughter of one of the many visiting families. He hadn’t known, when he’d let himself be prodded to Somerset, that he’d be stumbling upon a funeral, and certainly not that he’d find the bereaved daughter covered in garden dirt. Though had he known at the start, he would have simply assured the Moons that Mabena would get on well enough with her.
He inclined his head. “Forgive me again. Mr. Oliver Tremayne, of Tresco.”
“Tresco?” Her spine snapped straighter, and she darted a look toward the window. And presumably the islands beyond it. “But . . . then you’re not one of Bram’s friends. He knows no one here.”
Bram? It was logic more than knowledge that told him she must mean her brother. He shook his head. “No, I’ve never had the pleasure of meeting Lord Telford, aside from the few minutes he granted me when I arrived at your home at so unfortunate a time.” He, too, motioned, but toward her door. “I’d merely come to make certain Mabena Moon was well. Her parents asked me to make sure she was all right.”
Her brows drew together, making the piercing amber of her eyes all the more striking. She regarded him with the same expression she’d been giving the chrysalis in her garden—that if she could only study it long enough, she’d unravel all its secrets. “Why would her parents ask that of you?”
There were more reasons than he knew Mabena would want him to share, so he offered the simplest one. “I’m the vicar on Tresco. And one of the few Scillonians with ties to the mainland. I’m frequently called upon to help in such ways.”
He probably should have introduced himself as Mr. Tremayne of Truro Hall, as he’d done with her brother two years ago. But it wasn’t who he was, not really. He belonged to Tresco, not to their estate on the mainland. And her frank eyes demanded the real truth, not the nominal one.
She nodded and then glanced around her as if looking for something. “I . . . I expect she’ll be back any minute. Moon, I mean. She went over to Tresco to visit her family—but perhaps you know that? Is that what alarmed you, made you realize we were here where your sister should be?”
It was his turn to shake his head. “I haven’t seen her. I came because . . . well, because my sister was supposed to be writing to me twice weekly, and she hasn’t been. I was growing worried. For good reason, apparently. You say Beth’s things are still here, but Mrs. Pepper said she left without warning?”
“That’s right.”
Where could she possibly have run off to? He’d ask Mabena when she returned. She and Beth had always been the best of friends. If anyone knew . . .
Wait. What was Mabena doing back here, renting a cottage on St. Mary’s, anyway? Striving for a casual countenance, he summoned up a smile for Lady Elizabeth. “I didn’t realize Mabena Moon would be coming home. I’d have thought her parents would have mentioned it.”
“Oh, it was a last-minute decision.” She shifted away a bit, her gaze skittering to the wall and then down to the floor. “I . . . wanted a holiday, and Moon had told me how lovely the Scillies were. We considered ourselves rather fortunate we found a cottage with a vacancy.” Now those brows and the piercing eyes frowned anew. “It seems a bit less fortunate now, considering. Why don’t you sit, Mr. Tremayne? I’d like to show you something. Perhaps you can help me make sense of it.”
She didn’t wait to see if he obeyed, just hurried off in the direction of what must be the bedrooms. Oliver looked over the kitchen and living area, trying to imagine Beth here, making her own meals and filling the space with her constant movement. He couldn’t quite picture it though.
She’d always been independent, to be sure. She’d once boasted she could spend a week on one of the uninhabited islands without any help, and their father had granted her permission to prove it. She had, indeed, been quite well and happy, fishing for her meals and exploring. But that had been ages ago. In recent years, Beth had been more inclined toward drawing rooms and garden parties than survivalist skills. It was what had brought her here, after all—the promise of society on holiday. He moved into the living area and sat.
Lady Elizabeth reappeared a moment later, her arms full of books and parcels that were just a jumble until she spread them out on the low table beside a cannonball—a rather odd decoration, but he supposed Mrs. Pepper could have thought it would be charming. Though even then, he wasn’t certain what he was looking at. The only familiar item in the collection was a worn copy of Treasure Island. He reached for it, teeth clenched. Make that his worn copy of Treasure Island. He recognized the inkblot on the back and the nick on the bottom right corner, where his pen knife had slipped one day. “She left this here?”
And why did she ever take it to begin with? She’d borrowed it as a child, yes, but she’d long since returned it. It had been on the shelf in his bedroom for the past decade. Or so he’d thought. He flipped it open to where his name, written in pencil on the end leaf, was barely legible through the smudging of time.
“Flip a bit further, if you will.” Lady Elizabeth sat beside him on the sofa, a whiff of salt and sea and a hint of citrus reaching his nose. She leaned closer, clearly anticipating his obedience.
He turned a few more pages and let loose an involuntary shout of horror. “She’s written in it! I’m going to box her ears! What sort of monster marks up another person’s book?”
“It isn’t hers?”
“No—but it’s her hand that’s ruined it, that’s for certain.” He turned a few more pages, knowing well that his exasperation came out in every breath. “Why would she even take this from my room?”
He didn’t expect an answer. If there was one, it may in fact lie in the words Beth had so rudely scribbled into the margins, but he was too annoyed to read it. He was too annoyed, just now, to even wonder where his sister was. She’d better hope she was far, far away from him, though, because if she was anywhere nearby . . .
“I’m not certain as to the why, of course,” Lady Elizabeth said. She reached for the book, turned it to page seventeen, and tapped one of the horrific notes. “But that one there. I’d just read it when I was down at the beach this morning, and then this fellow came along and said the first line to me. I was so startled, I just repeated the second. And then he gave me that.”
Oliver’s gaze followed her hands—not the white, pampered fingers one expected of a lady, but with short nails, ink stains, calluses, and enough traces of dirt under her nails that he was reminded of how much he’d liked her on their walk—to the table. No, to the cannonball.
He frowned. It had to be an eighteen-pounder, given the size. Too big for most of the ships that would have historically made port here, but the wear on it suggested it had been underwater. “Who did you say gave it to you?”